by Carolyne Lee, an Australian Francophile

After so many visits to Paris during the soldes, I didn’t think I could get very excited about them anymore. But today I discovered that my favourite English bookstore in Paris, The Red Wheelbarrow, at 22 rue Saint Paul, in the 4th arrondissement (phone: 01 48 04 75 08), is having a very serious sale indeed. I’ve always loved visiting this bookshop, as much for the welcoming owner and her staff as for the astute and wide-ranging choice of books.You can read the history of the bookshop here.

It’s also a great excuse to visit the gorgeous Marais area (as if one needs an excuse!), and more specifically the Village Saint Paul, just near the bookshop.

Details of the sale:

25% off all hard-bound non-fiction books

Selected children’s hardbound PICTURE books: 12€

Selected paperbound picture books:10€ plus, buy 2  paperbound children’s picture books on sale, and get a 3rd one free (= 3 paperbound children’s picture books, 20€)

There’s also a big  table in the center of the shop, with every paperbound fiction title on the table only 10 euros (plus, buy 10, get an 11th free = 11 paperbound fiction books for 100 euros)

The shop is open 7 days, 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. except Monday 10-6 p.m. and Sunday noon (or sometimes a little later) to 6 p.m.

by guest blogger Romana Byrne, an Australian who has been living in France since August 2011.

I’ve been thinking a little about how France and Australia differ regarding gender roles, sexuality, and cultural practices, and thought I’d share this with escapetoparis readers to see what you think.

Some of the most interesting cultural differences that I have observed pertain to gender roles. Despite France’s reputation for valuing sensuality and seduction, the heterosexual courtship practices here evidence strict and decidedly conservative gender roles. I’ve discussed this matter with a few people here now, and there seems to be very clear conventions. In matters of seduction, it is often, nearly always, the male who pursues, makes the first move, and nearly always the female who waits, acts cool, plays hard to get, and certainly never sleeps with her pursuer on the first date (or even the second), unless she definitely wants to leave the event as a one-night-stand and nothing more. If she transgresses these rules, she’s “easy” and therefore her value reduces significantly. Of course, not knowing these rules, and coming from a culture where it is acceptable for the female to take a more “active” role in the courtship process, I’ve completely flouted them (fortunately with someone who is too intelligent and culturally sensitive to think of me as a slut!).  Also, I had a friend who began courting a French man, and it was a month before she slept with him (Philippe tells me this is not too unusual); can you imagine an Australian man waiting that long?

Surely this male-pursues, female-holds-back-and-waits dynamic must be restricted to heterosexual contexts; surely the rules-of-procedure for women must change somewhat in lesbian communities, or else there wouldn’t be much happening at all after everyone leaves the nightclub. Or perhaps one takes a designated “male” or “female” role? I’m afraid I haven’t really had a chance to personally investigate queer French courtship yet.

Curiously, in contrast with the rather constricted gendered courtship roles, French heterosexual masculinity appears to be much less narrow than the Australian variety. That is, the “average” (I know this is a problematic term, but bear with me) heterosexual French male can do, and most certainly does, a whole variety of things that would compromise an “average” Australian male’s sense of heterosexual virility, such as frequent tea salons (there are many wonderful salons du thé here), take courses in acting, dancing and singing, appreciate literature and poetry, express his emotions at length, and dress himself with attention to elegance and dignity.

Actually, the broader issue to which this is connected is the more central role of what we vaguely refer to as “culture”. What we might think of as “cultured activities” in Australia – going to the theatre or an independent, non-block-buster art gallery, for example – are par-for-the course, no-brainer Saturday afternoon outings for most people, and are not tied to education level or the position you might hold in the arts industry. And cultural artefacts that we might consider “high-brow”, “art-house” or “indie” in Australia – like old French films, graphic novels, avant-garde literature, Molière and an affected melancholy, for instance – are positively mainstream in France. In contrast to the situation in which I lived in Melbourne, where most of my friends have or are doing PhDs and can boast a privileged training in cultural knowledge, and own plenty of cultural capital, I’m very aware that the social milieu I inhabit here is, in the main, profoundly ordinary in terms of cultural, scholastic, and economic wealth. And this makes the disjuncture between Australian and French modes of linking identity with cultural consumption and activities all the more striking.

Anyway, if any readers have any thoughts on the matter – even if you think I’m completely wrong – I’d love to hear them.

My previous photo showed the famous Pont Neuf – or ‘New Bridge’ – of Toulouse, seen from a distance of several hundred metres in the hazy Autumn light. Here, I am standing again on the east bank of the river Garonne, but this time on the south side of the bridge beside the first arch and below the Quai de Tounis.

Built of bricks and stone, the construction took from 1544 to 1632, although the bridge was not inaugurated until 16 October, 1659, in the reign of King Louis XIV. The laying of the foundations took many years, and the first arch was not commenced until 1614. I presume it was the one nearest to the camera, since this is the side of the old city itself. Interestingly, the bridge is not symmetrical, and the highest point occurs above the third arch of the seven, rather than above the middle arch, as can be clearly seen in my photo. This arch is the largest of them, with a span of 30 metres.

Today, the Pont Neuf is still perhaps Toulouse’s most renowned historic structure, and used daily by thousands of pedestrians, cyclists and vehicles.

(guest post by photographer Andrew McRae)

This photo in Toulouse was taken one afternoon last week as I walked beside the Garonne along the Quai de Lucien Lombard towards the Pont Neuf. It was the first really sunny day for over a week and many people sat on the quays enjoying the sun as it shone in the hazy sky of late Autumn. A romantic young couple caught my attention.

The Garonne is one of France’s principal rivers, flowing 575 km from its origin in the glaciers of the Pyrenees, on the Spanish side of the border. It ends its journey in the Bay of Biscay estuary, La Gironde near Bordeaux, where it meets the Dordogne. Passing through Toulouse it is too shallow and bedevilled by treacherous currents for boats, and so its broad surface is often very tranquil, devoid of all traffic except the occasional rower or police launch. I saw the rather strange sight today of a man propelling himself along in the middle of the river while standing on a narrow kayak.

The graceful Pont Neuf was built between 1544 and 1632, and inaugurated in 1659.

(guest post by photographer Andrew McRae)

Every week here in Toulouse brings me a new discovery: a tiny shop with the créatrice (designer) sitting at her sewing maching in the middle of it, making brooches and bags, a mercerie (haberdashery) selling exquisite ribbons and buttons, a new walk along a quai where you think you are in Venice, a string of bustling and tightly-packed traditional restaurants, arrayed end to end above the Victor Hugo market.

My latest find is a delightful little shop, a boutique-atelier, at no. 4 Quai de la Daurade, just near Pont Neuf, before the Ecole des Beaux Arts. The intriguing name, Mapie des Vignes made me look twice, as did the sign in the window, ‘Mes créations a vos mesures’ (‘My creations made to your measurements’). Mapie (short for Marie-Pierre) is the name of the shop’s owner/designer, and Mapie des Vignes is her own label.

The concept is that she has several of each of her designs made up in the shop, so that clients can order the pieces they like, made especially to their exact measurements.The designs are stylish and simple, in beautiful natural fabrics, some of which she also sells by the metre.  I bought some orange silk to line a skirt-in-progress, and some black wool threaded through with coloured ribbons, also for a skirt.

The boutique also hosts other créatrices and their collections of textile art—be it brooches, embroidery, jewellery, or other creations. At the time of my visit I saw these beautiful felt brooches, in the shapes of flowers and butterflies. Also in the shop was a colourful range of rings and earrings. There’s absolutely no excuse for anyone in Toulouse to be unable to find the most original  Christmas presents.

I’ve written before about how French customs help to generate social capital, a term from sociology, signifying interaction among individuals who are friendly towards one another, and who give each other mutual assistance, such as conversation, company,  or congenial contact of any type.

This concept has really been brought home to me again since I arrived in Toulouse just over a month ago. Although I’ve visited this city a couple of times before, and know a handful of people here, I’m still a stranger, and have to spend long hours alone slaving over a hot keyboard, in order to get my work done, although I’m not complaining as that’s the reason I came here in the first place. Very different from my busy life in Melbourne, where I often long for enough solitude to get my research and writing done, my lifestyle in France gives me a little glimpse into what it must be like for people who are socially isolated or have few friends—no matter what country they live in.

In France, however, there are numerous markets, and I always make this one of the centres of my life, shopping each day for the few things I need, deciding what to cook based on what looks good and affordable that day.

In Toulouse the historic Marche des Carmes is a few steps down the road from where I am staying. Apart from the comforting sights and smells of markets, they are also wonderful places for social interaction.  And in France, the most important place in the market is arguably the cheese stall.  On my first day there, faced with the bewildering array of French cheeses, I asked the fromager for some recommendations, and he gave me tastings and also advice about the different cheeses. He focuses on a different two or three types each time I go there, and I’ve come to refer to these sessions as my ‘cheese tutorials’.  I excused my ignorance of French cheeses to him by explaining that I was Australian. In turn, he told me how he learned about Australia in the English courses he took at university, and also how his business was originally owned by his great-grandparents.

On one occasion during my ‘tutorials’, when he was giving me two morsels to taste and compare—one of one-year old Comte, and the other aged for two years, I noticed in my peripheral vision that the queue  behind me was quickly lengthening. I turned apologetically to the woman next to me, although my mouth was too full of cheese to do much apologising, but she was smiling and nodding — probably in approval that a foreigner was interested enough in her culture to learn about this important part of it.

As for the Comte, I prefer the older of the two, and when I bought more of it this morning, I was informed that this particular one was aged ’26 months’!  To complement it I bought a creamy mild cheese, and a blue d’Auvergne, as this gives a good contrast of cheeses to follow after the main course and before the dessert. But I’m not going to give you any more details than that. You’ll just have to ask your fromager yourself.